


I Hurt, Therefore I Am

by Kkaepsongiya



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Stiles, Ignoring Seasons 4+5, Inspired by Poetry, Inspired by Real Events, Kidnapped Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Public Humiliation, Revenge, Stiles-centric, This is really dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kkaepsongiya/pseuds/Kkaepsongiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Up  I  go  like  a  windfall  in  reverse, </i>
  <br/>
  <i>a  blackened  apple  stuck  back  onto  the  tree. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Trussed  hands,  rag  in  my  mouth, </i>
  <br/>
  <i>a  flag  raised  to  salute  the  moon, </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>—Half-Hanged Mary, Margaret Atwood</i>
</p>
<p>Stiles gets taken and he's not sure that he'll make it out this time</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hurt, Therefore I Am

**Author's Note:**

> This is, obviously, based off of Margaret Atwood's narrative poem "Half-Hanged Mary" which is inspired by true events dating back to before the Salem Witch Trials—I'm not one for poetry but it's a great read (twisted and yet still amazing)—it's not necessary to read it to understand the fic but just know that the italicized bits are from the poem  
> Also, idk where the line break button went so enjoy my homemade line breaks lmao  
> READ THE END NOTES FOR A SUMMARY/TAG EXPLANATION

_The  men  of  the  town  stalk  homeward,  
excited  by  their  show  of  hate,  _

_their  own  evil  turned  inside  out  like  a  glove,  
and  me  wearing  it.  _

* * *

**Thursday, 8pm**

Nothing, it seemed, would ever go right in his life. Ever since he found out about his spark, Stiles’ life had just been a downwards spiral of trying to save lives while running for his. Running with wolves had taught him a few things but he had never thought that he would be stuck in this situation. Wolves he could handle. Kanimas he could handle. Nogitsunes he could ~~kinda~~ handle. After all of the shit he’d had to deal with over the past few years, he could find himself out of a couple of situations but never— _never_ —did he ever think that he would be kidnapped from right outside of his house. Right outside of the _sheriff’s_ house. He could deal with supernaturals any day but with all of the time he spent throwing mountain ash and little spells that gave him enough time to get out of danger, he never spent any time actually learning how to defend himself and so when he’s grabbed from behind he’s done. When he’s hit over the head, his legs give out and he feels the roughness of something being shoved over his head before he’s out like a broken light bulb. 

* * *

_Birds_  
_of  a  feather  burn  together,_  
_though  as  a  rule  ravens  are  singular._  

_In  a  gathering  like  this  one  
the  safe  place  is  the  background,  _

* * *

**Thursday, 9pm**

When he gains consciousness, his vision is hazy and he feels sluggish. He can feel blood coating part of his face and guesses that that’s probably why he feels so tired. He prays that they haven’t drugged him because he’s not had enough practice to use certain spells without being at full capacity. He can’t even heal himself in this state because he’s swimming in and out of consciousness. He’s definitely been drugged. He groans a little, the cloth tied tightly around his head muffles the sound. It’s pressed so tightly across his mouth that the thin corners of his lips are stretched to the point of bleeding.

He has no idea where he is but as he looks around he notices that there’s somebody in the room with him. While Stiles’ wrists are tied together tightly behind his back with rough rope, the man is free so Stiles supposes that the man hasn’t been kidnapped like he has. The man is sitting in a chair by the door of the room with a black hood covering his entire face save for his eyes but that’s enough. From what Stiles can see, the man is watching him with a hard look in his eyes, like he’s disgusted by Stiles and the state that he’s in even though Stiles is sure the man’s probably the reason for the state he’s in. The man stands up and leaves the room, returning a moment later with another hooded man. This new man’s body language is equivalent to a disgusted sneer as he and the first man walk over to him and pull him roughly to his feet. Before he can even make a sound, they are pulling a sack over his head and manhandling him out of the room. The movements push the sack against his head wound and he whimpers against the cloth in his mouth.

He has no idea who they are or where they’re going but eventually he’s pushed onto his knees and the sack is ripped off. The room is lit only by candles and Stiles thinks it’s really just a scare tactic (mostly because it’s working if his heartbeat is anything to go by). He’s surrounded on all sides by hooded people, and they’re all silent. The candle lighting casts terrifying shadows on the walls and Stiles breathes heavily against the gag. The people in front of him part suddenly and a person moves to stand in front of him. One of the men to Stiles side shoves his head down so that he’s looking at the floor and not the person in front of him.

“You have been brought here on account of your heinous actions against a member of our society. A member who, by you, was murdered in cold blood.” Stiles’ heart is pounding in his chest and he’s having trouble wrapping his head around the words of this man. “For the murder of one of our brothers, you have been sentenced, by our council, to death by hanging.” Stiles wants to laugh like at any moment they’ll pull off their masks and it’ll be Scott and the pack pulling a prank, just a stupid prank. It’s silent for a moment before the man speaks again. He’s explaining the basis of the punishment Stiles thinks but he can’t get himself to focus with the blood pulsing in his ears. This...this was...it was okay, the pack would find him, they would. They wouldn’t let him be killed by a group of crazies…

The men from before pulled him to his feet and put the sack back over his head. The room was dead silent as he was shoved outside and basically dragged back to the room he had woken up in. He was pushed back onto his knees and his bound wrists, which were aching from being tied so tightly together for so long, were tied to a support beam behind him. He tested the length of the rope and was upset to find that he didn’t have enough space to shift his position on the floor. The sack weighed heavy on his head and muddled his hearing. He was without his senses awaiting his death. Hopefully his pack would find him before that happened.

He’d been kidnapped before but it was so different. Stiles knew that Gerard wouldn’t kill him, beat him half to death yeah but not kill him. These people though...Stiles wasn’t so sure that these masked people were just here to make a point.

They were here to get revenge.

* * *

_I'm  reduced  to  knotted  muscle._  
_Blood  bulges  in  my  skull,_  
_my  clenched  teeth  hold  it  in;_  
_I  bite  down  on  despair_

_Death  sits  on  my  shoulder  like  a  crow_  
_waiting  for  my  squeezed  beet_  
_of  a  heart  to  burst_  
_so  he  can  eat  my  eyes_

_or  like  a  dark  angel_  
insidious  in  his  glossy  feathers   
whispering  to  me  to  be  easy   
on  myself.   To  breathe  out  finally.   
Trust  me _,  he  says,  caressing  
__me_. Why  suffer? 

* * *

**Friday, 8am**

Stiles had no idea what time it was. There were no windows in the room he was in and, even if there were, with the sack on his head he wouldn’t be able to see the sun to tell. The man from earlier was still in the room with him, though he might’ve switched with someone after a while to go get sleep. Stiles wished he could sleep. With the uncomfortable position he was in, he couldn’t sleep but with the drugs in his system and a head wound he constantly felt himself slipping into sleep. Only to be hit with something and woken up. Whoever was keeping watch had made sure to keep him awake, to tire him out. He was becoming creative, too: sometimes he hit Stiles to wake him up, sometimes he screamed in his face to startle him awake, and , more recently, he had poured water over Stiles’ head. The liquid had weighed down the sack and made it hard for Stiles to breathe (which, of course, made him panic which made it even _harder_ to breathe). The man had only laughed as Stiles struggled from his place on the floor, trying to get in enough air.

* * *

_There  is  only  one  prayer;  it  is  not_  
_the  knees  in  the  clean  nightgown_  
on  the  hooked  rug   
I  want  this,  I  want  that _._  
Oh  far  beyond.   
Call  it  Please _.   Call  it_ Mercy.   
_Call  it_ Not  yet,  not  yet, 

* * *

**Friday, 12pm**

“We’re gonna get started soon.” The voice of the man startled Stiles out of his own head. The man sounded excited and it made Stiles sick. He had long since surpassed worry and had gone into a shock-type of panic like his mind just couldn’t process what was happening. He almost wished that he was back with Gerard, the man kicking the crap out of him. He’d had nightmares for weeks after that and he’d had personal space issues for a while but somehow that was better than this. He was going to be hanged. _Hanged_. They were going to hang 17-year-old Stiles Stilinski. His axis would break and sever his spinal cord and he would lose consciousness and eventually...die. He was going to die and that was it.

The door to the room opened suddenly and the two whispered to each other before moving towards him. A needle picked his shoulder before he could even register that one of them men were standing close enough to fill him with drugs. His arms were untied from the beam and he was yanked to his feet. He assumed they were going to start moving out of the room but instead they began to cut off his clothes. His shirt went first and he struggled against them, even as the knife nicked his skin a couple times. They didn’t seem bothered by his drug-weakened struggle, easily overpowering him and continued undressing him. As the man in front of him moved down to unbutton and pull off his jeans, Stiles lashed out with his legs, hitting the man in his stomach weakly but with enough force to wind him. The man retaliated with a hit to his already injured head and a punch to the stomach.

“I dare you to try that again,” the man sneered, yanking off Stiles’ pants and underwear before they were yanking him out of the room. Stiles stumbled over his own feet, struggling to keep up with the fast pace of the men pulling him, especially when his limbs were feeling heavier than usual as drugs flowed through his veins. The cloth in front of his face was warm and damp and smelt a bit like mold and it made Stiles feel sick. He could feel his stomach churn and he prayed that he wouldn’t throw up because he knew that with the gag in his mouth he’d choke on it and they wouldn’t take off the sack or clean him up.

They stopped moving and he was thrown onto the floor and left. It was silent all around him, his body curling into itself in an attempt to cover his naked body. The silence was unnerving and he could feel himself shaking.

The first hit came out of nowhere. Blunt force to his chest, the hit forcing a cry out of him. After that, they kept coming: a hit to his leg, then the other, then his arm, then here, then there. The blows kept coming until he couldn’t breath, his body heaving in pain. Just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped and it was silent again save for his own whimpers. Every part of his body radiated pain and he could barely breath and his mind was hazy. He was pulled to his feet and if it weren’t for the painful grips on his arms, he would’ve crumbled back to the ground under the weight of his own body.

They were moving again but he couldn’t make his body work. He had no energy to make his legs walk, he couldn’t get his footing. The men were talking over him but he had been hit in the head before and his hearing was muddled. He had no idea what was going on when they stopped, finally able to plant his feet on the ground and hold himself up. The sack was yanked off of his head and he was assaulted by the harsh lighting of the sun. As his vision cleared, he could see that mass of people standing facing him, the group split down the middle to create a path for them to walk. Even with the hoods over their faces, Stiles knew what they looked like: vengeful eyes and spiteful sneer. Silent, the mass watched as Stiles was brought down the makeshift aisle.

At the end of the path, stood a tree.

* * *

_Time is relative, let me tell you.  
I have lived a millennium. _

* * *

**Friday, 1pm**

They took the gag out of his mouth and, finally able to talk...he doesn’t. Instead he wretches and pukes on the floor, bile splashing against old leaves and dirt. They unbind his wrist and he just lets them dangle at his side. There’s nothing he can do: he’s too weak to do any magic and he’s going to die. Now that his walk of shame is over, they give him back his underwear but that’s it so the cold air nips at his bare skin. He’s going to die. He’s 17 and he’s going to die. Scott isn’t coming. His dad isn’t coming. Derek, Jackson, Isaac, Lydia, Allison, Kira, nobody. He’s 17, he’s all alone, and he’s going to die. He doesn’t bother to wipe away the tears streaming down his face. Deep down, he kinda hopes that this display of weakness will make them rethink his sentence.

They don’t.

A rope is wrapped around his neck and he begins to panic because wait, _wait_ , what are they doing? There was no platform for him to fall through, no chair to push him off of, nothing. He thought that it would at least be a quick death: they’d drop him, he’d break his neck, he’d die. But no, this...this wasn’t a long drop, no. The other end of the rope is thrown over the tree branch and a group of men gather there to hold the rope.

Stiles tries to protest, tries to beg, _plead_ for his life. He’s given up on going with his dignity. He doesn’t want to die. He’s _too young_ to die.

His pleas are ignored and the men start pulling the loose end of the rope.

Stiles can feel his feet leaving the ground.

* * *

_My audience is God,_  
_because who the hell else could understand me?_  
_Who else has been dead twice?_

* * *

**Friday, 3pm**

Stiles wants to cry. He has no idea what’s going on. All of his senses are dulled and he can’t breath. He feels like he’s choking. He doesn’t know how he’s still alive.

They hanged him and left gravity to do its work and strangle him to death but it never happened. He didn’t know how or why, but he was dangling from a tree by his neck and he wasn’t dead. There was nobody around, he was all alone, and he _almost_ wished that he had died already. He’s not getting enough oxygen and he can’t move any of his dangling limbs and he’s so scared but he can’t cry. His body won’t allow him to cry.

He hangs there and just prays that somebody comes to check on him, realizes he isn’t dead yet.

And kills him.

* * *

_When they came to harvest my corpse_  
_(open your mouth, close your eyes)_  
_cut my body from the rope,_

_surprise, surprise:  
I was still alive. _

* * *

**Friday, 4pm**

The first scream came out of nowhere and while Stiles couldn’t focus on anything, the sound brought him almost to full awareness. More came afters, each cut short mysteriously like their vocal cords had suddenly shut off. Voices called out and shapes found their way into his hazy vision. Warm hands were on his skin and suddenly he was falling. The rope was still wrapped tight around his neck but with his weight no longer baring down on it he could gasp in air. He took in so much that he got lightheaded (or was he lightheaded before??? He couldn’t tell). The rope was removed and the warm hands were on him again, touching his hair, his face, his neck. He could hear people talking around them and some of the voices sounded _so_ familiar but he couldn’t place them.

He couldn’t really think but he hoped that they were here to kill him.

His world faded to black.

* * *

_Before, I was not a witch.  
But now I am one. _

* * *

**Sunday, 10am**

He wakes up in the hospital. The pack is scattered in various places around the room and his dad sits in the chair next to his bed, holding his hand. They’re all at attention the minute they realize he’s up and they crowd the bed.

“We took care of them,” Derek says when Stiles gives him a questioning look. He can’t talk, his throat has been ruined from all of the pressure on it and he might not be able to speak ever again without serious pain, but right now he can’t really care at the moment.

Stiles is 17. He is home. He is alive. His family is with him. He’s survived.

* * *

_Don’t say I’m not grateful._  
_Most will have only one death._  
_I will have two._

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: In the aftermath of the nogitsune, Stiles is kidnapped by a secret society who want to get revenge on him for killing one of their high-ranking officials. They sentence him to death by hanging but before the actual hanging he's beat up with a sack over his head (which is there for a majority of the fic) after being stripped naked and is marched to a tree to be hanged (which he imagines multiple times). He is hanged but doesn't die.
> 
> Reach me [here](http://www.isaaclecter.tumblr.com) to talk about botched hangings and how I actually love Stiles even tho I keep trying to kill him


End file.
